


Breathless

by DachOsmin



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Firmus Piett does not disobey orders. When Vader summons him, he goes.
Relationships: Firmus Piett/Darth Vader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 128
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurae/gifts).



Firmus Piett does not disobey orders.

He is responsible. Staid. His coworkers have accused him of being part droid on more than one occasion, and he acknowledges it’s some measure of his character that he takes it as a complement. Everything is done on time with the precision of a circuit board. Nothing he does is done without careful consideration; there is nothing in him that would be cause for complaint.

Not like Admiral Motti, who has the poor sense to not only dress down Lord Vader in front of the Joint Chiefs of the Death Star, but also manages to insult the man’s religion in the process.

Piett watches as Vader turns to consider Motti. His mask gives nothing away, but Piett can guess what is lurking beneath. And so he is not surprised when Motti suddenly stutters into silence.

Under Vader’s impassive gaze, Motti claws his collar. His face turns an angry red; his limbs jerk and spasm as he struggles in his chair; there is a whimper on his lips.

Piett shifts in his seat. His throat constricts in sympathy, or in something else.

What would it feel like? To be subdued like that. To be made to heel like that. To have the weight of a man like Vader rest so singularly on one’s own body.

He swallows roughly.

With a flick of his gloved fingers Vader releases his prey, and the spell is broken. Admiral Motti collapses into anguished gasps, writhing and hacking as he can finally breath again, sucking in great ragged breaths.

The meeting resumes, and Piett forces himself to pay attention.

Vader turns to go. And Piett cannot see beneath the glassy blackness of the mask, but Piett could swear that when he looks back, it’s Piett that his gaze lingers on.

***

Firmus Piett is only human.

He has needs. He has wants. He has those twisted, curling dark desires that roil beneath the skin, thrust upon the conscious, make themselves known in the dark hours of the night.

He never acts on them. They taught that at the academy. Every man has his weaknesses. It is a measure of a man’s character, what he does in those moments of temptation. His instructors, hawk eyed and filled with zeal, had always presented the conflict between virtue and vice as a duel in the heart of men.

Piett has found it to be more of a siege.

He cannot sleep. The thoughts are as intrusive as they are relentless. The smooth slide of leather gloves over his throat. The dizziness, the burn in his lungs, the limpness of his feet swaying in the air beneath him. The singular force of a mind dominating him, subduing him, subjecting him to a will greater than his own.

He takes himself in hand in the darkness of his bunk, brings the other up to press down against his windpipe as he strokes himself with the same clinical efficiency he applies to all other tasks in his life.

-hands in supple black gloves, a fire in his throat, a lightness in his head-

When he comes, he can almost feel another’s presence in his mind.

***

Firmus Piett has a hunch.

Vader is flaunting his powers more often, or at least it seems that way.

Minor infractions are punished with the flaunting of his powers now: late reports, laziness in meetings, perceived slights. The other officers debate in the mess whether it’s because Vader is vulnerable to replacement by the Emperor with the advent of the death star, whether the flaunting of his powers is a not-so-subtle reminder that for now, he still reigns supreme.

Piett isn’t so sure.

Not long afterwards, Vader chokes Admiral Ozzel over their ship’s comm feed as Piett stands by Ozzel’s side. They’re so close that Piett can see the veins tremble in his supervisor’s neck, hear the tiny cries of desperation low in Ozzel’s throat. He falls to his feet soon after, and then lies still.

When Vader cuts the comm feed, Piett finds he can breathe again. He inhales deeply, and wonders why it feels like disappointment.

***

Firmus Piett does not disobey orders.

When Vader summons him, he goes.

The summons is not to a council meeting, or to the bridge. No: Vader sends for Piett to attend him in his private chambers.

When Piett arrives, he sees that they are alone. The room is quiet save for the hum of the lights and the steady sound of Vader breathing. He stands by the panoramic window that takes up the far wall, facing the endless expanse of black sky sewn with stars.

“My lord,” Piett says, and waits for his orders.

Vader turns with slow deliberation. Their eyes meet: it’s odd, but Piett knows it, even with the mask in the way. The weight of Vader’s gaze is heavy, it settles low in Piett’s gut.

“Status report on the rebel’s activities,” Vader says.

His voice is sterile, imposing as it always is. And yet— a catch on the final syllable, a weight, like something expectant is curling in the silence that comes after.

And Firmus Piett does not disobey orders, but oh, if he did—

“Your report, Admiral Piett,” Vader repeats.

Piett swallows. His mouth feels very dry. And— “Make me,” he says.


End file.
